


and i keep on walking ('cause my feet lead me to you)

by kameo_chan



Series: puppets on strings [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Companion Piece, M/M, Smut, The porniest porn I've written in a while and that's just sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kameo_chan/pseuds/kameo_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has good days and bad days. Luckily for Stiles, today is one of the good ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i keep on walking ('cause my feet lead me to you)

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/480088), possibly because I felt guilty about ending it on such a despairing note. But don't tell anyone I said that. *shifty eyes*

He isn’t always like this. Stiles knows, because some mornings he wakes up breathing hard; heart rabbiting in his chest and blood thundering in his ears and he _knows_ things. Things like why there are scars littering the pale skin covering his wrists like exclamation marks, permanent reminders etched nerve-deep. Like why he’s drenched in cold sweat with the sheets mussed and rumpled and sour-smelling beneath him or why he keeps breathing out one word like a dying man. 

_Derek_.

He isn’t always like this and that is part of why everything is so very, very wrong. 

\---- 

“It’s a good day,” he says when the door opens on hinges a little more rusty than they probably have any right to be. 

Derek is standing in the doorway, half in and half out of his room, eyes wary. Stiles doesn’t blame him. He remembers things sometimes; vague and tenuous but there all the same; like the day Derek had climbed through the window and snuck into bed with him only to end up with a dislocated jaw when Stiles socked him in the face with an elbow. That had been a bad day. 

But today is different, because today Stiles knows exactly where he is and why. He calls them his good days, but they are in fact even worse than the bad ones. He secretly thinks of these days, where he has clarity and focus and best of all, _recollection_ , as his own personal hell. One created by fate for him, because it’s such a short, short time. It’s an eternity that ends in the blink of an eye. 

“Come here.” He holds out his arms and beckons, and Derek shuffles forward, face hard and unreadable, but in a familiar way. He treasures these moments, when he is enough in and of himself to know that Derek gives the best hugs _ever_ , cantankerous nature notwithstanding. 

He leans into the touch, the sure weight of Derek’s arms around him like a safety blanket and grins against Derek’s ear when Derek dips his head to sniff at the hollow of his throat. When Derek pulls back, his eyes dance with little pinpricks of red. “It’s a good day,” he confirms, sounding reassured and oddly vulnerable.  
“I told you,” Stiles quips, still relishing the tingle left on his skin by Derek’s beard. Derek holds him at arms’ length, and then ducks his head from side to side, checking everywhere for any tell-tale signs of injury, and it’s all Stiles can do to not just roll his eyes at him. “I’m fine,” he murmurs, bringing up one of his own hands to rest on Derek’s cheek. 

“I have to make sure,” Derek mutters, and Stiles feels like laughing. Derek sounds like a smother, but Stiles dutifully refrains from telling him that. 

“You need to stop worrying so much,” Stiles tells him instead. “All that frowning is ruining your stupidly perfect _visage_.” He taps the tight lines around Derek’s mouth with a finger, and gets a growl and a nip in return. 

“It’s not like anyone else will notice,” Derek hums, tongue snaking out to curve around the tip of Stiles’ finger. It’s not his fault he draws in a sharp gasp at the feeling; it really isn’t, not when Derek is the one responsible for it. 

“Erica will tease you about it,” Stiles whispers, eyes glued to the way the pink tip of Derek’s tongue flicks in and out of his mouth. It’s like a magic trick, he thinks. A fascinating, sexy magic trick that really isn’t a trick at all but more like a minor miracle. And Derek, being the smug tease that he is, gives Stiles a slow, promising smile. 

“Let her,” Derek says, voice dark and low and rich, his words rumbling from his chest like the faint thrum of a distant thunderstorm. And then he pulls Stiles closer, and he’s inexorable really, like the catastrophic pull of a supernova, until Stiles is flush against him. And oh, Stiles has missed this. Because he hasn’t had a good day in _weeks_ and even on the bad days he _aches_ with the want of something he can’t even put a name to. 

“God, I’ve missed you,” Derek breathes into his hair. “Every day I hoped that you’d… That you…” Whatever he’d been planning to say is drowned out by the low keening sound he lets out, and Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck, presses his face into Derek’s shoulder and tries to blink away the sudden hot rush of tears. 

“I know. I know. It’s been a long time, I know.” 

And Derek draws back again, but instead of releasing him he cups Stiles’ face and peppers it with desperate kisses. They flutter across his eyes and nose, press lightly at the corner of his mouth and on the mole on his left cheek and Stiles lets Derek do this because they both need this, this affirmation that even though things are complete shit half the time, the other half is what makes it all worth it. 

“Stiles,” Derek whispers in between kisses. “Stiles.” Like uttering his name is the only thing keeping him here, tethered to this reality and to Derek and everything they’ve fought so hard for. 

“I’m here,” Stiles whispers back, eyes closed. “I’m right here.” 

And the kisses continue, even when Derek’s hands drop to his waist and the small of his back, rubbing slow circles through his clothes and setting every nerve on fire. Derek’s body is a taut line of tension and restraint and sheer breathtaking _need_ against his, and it’s all Stiles can do to keep himself upright against the onslaught. 

“Bed,” Derek mutters against the shell of his ear, and Stiles shudders at how undone he sounds.

“Yes, bed,” he parrots back, finally risking a peek at Derek. And all the air leaves his lungs in a small “Oh!” at the sight, because Derek’s eyes are embers, burning too hot and too bright with their hunger. 

“Jesus.” 

“No, bed,” Derek quips; shuffling them along until the back of Stiles’ knees hit the edge of the mattress. And then they’re sinking down onto it, Derek heavy and warm and so incredibly hard against the inside of Stiles’ thigh, spreading his legs apart with the solid weight of him. If Stiles could pause time and relive any moment of his life for the rest of forever, this would be that moment, because right now everything is normal and perfect and okay. It won’t last, he knows, but it’s more than enough for now. 

And then Derek goes and derails his train of thought, wrecks it like a demolition crew with one slow roll of his hips and oh God, dear sweet Lord, that feels so incredibly fucking good. Derek is an inferno towering above him, hips thrusting hard and sure and Stiles knows he can come from just this, this heat and friction and the slick-wet drag of Derek’s tongue on his fevered skin; knows this because Derek has done this to him before. But this isn’t what Stiles wants, not today.

“Get your pants off, cavewolf,” he pants, tugging at Derek’s hair to get his attention. “Hell, get mine off too. It’s anti-pants day today. No pants for everyone.” When Derek raises his head and looks at him, Stiles feels a surge of mind-numbing fear for all of an instant before everything gives way to the tight, insistent coil of lust that pools low and deep in his belly before shooting straight to his aching cock. 

Derek looks like he wants to eat Stiles, and that’s a fair assumption, given that he’s half-feral and drunk off the scent of impending sex wafting around the room. Eyes heavy-lidded and his breath coming in short, hard pants, he looks like every forbidden locker room fantasy Stiles ever had in high school.

“What?” he asks, unfocused, and Stiles has to tug at his hair again to stop him from latching his mouth onto the tender skin just underneath Stiles’ chin. 

“Pants. Off. Now,” Stiles bites out between breaths, because Derek’s hips seem to have a mind of their own; he’s still humping Stiles into the mattress. Derek makes a low, hungry noise in the back of his throat and before Stiles can say or do anything more than grunt in response, he feels the _snick_ of claws carefully dipping below the waistband of his pants, which is immediately followed by a loud ripping sound and voila! Presto pantslessness. 

There’s another tearing noise, and then Derek is shimmying out of his jeans and breaking away from Stiles just long enough to kick them into the far corner of the room. 

And then he’s back, settling in between Stiles’ legs as though he were made for it, and Stiles has a moment to think, _This is all I ever wanted; please God, let me remember this next time_ , before Derek is kissing him again. It’s slower this time, sweeter and less urgent and Stiles _craves_ so much, opens for Derek until he has the taste of him memorized. He’ll forget it, he knows. Maybe not tomorrow or the day after or even for the next month, but he will, eventually, because Stiles knows this and this is how their life together works. 

He feels like crying. He always does, when Derek touches him as though he’s going to fall apart and unravel in his hands if he isn’t careful. And in a sense, Stiles supposes, that is exactly what happens each and every time. “Derek.” He knows how he sounds; knows that Derek knows too. “Derek.” 

Derek stills against him, going completely motionless for a moment before relaxing into Stiles and bringing his arms up to bracket Stiles’ head. He’s looking at Stiles, the red gone and his eyes clear. “Yeah?” 

Stiles can’t help the smile he gives Derek any more than he can help the fact that he sometimes wakes up and feels like a stranger in his own bed. It feels wrong and twisted, _broken_ even. But Derek doesn’t look away. Instead he reaches out and drags the knuckles of his right hand across Stiles’ cheek. 

“Do you know?” Stiles asks, because this is part of their ritual, when he has a good day, whether there is sex involved or not. 

“I know,” Derek says, eyes still fixed on him as though he’s going blind and Stiles is the last thing he wants to see. "I've always known. I always will." And then he leans over, reaches into one of the shelves on the headboard and retrieves the tube of KY from its nook before twisting off the cap. 

The lube is already warm by the time it hits his skin, and Stiles sucks in a breath, because Derek twists his hand expertly, fingers slipping over the head of his cock to dip lower and grasp at the base before moving back up again and repeating the process. His hand tugs up in short, hard little pulls that leave Stiles bucking up into his fist, desperate for more pressure and friction. It’s perfection, the rough callouses of Derek’s fingers a startling contrast to the velvety slickness of the lube as Stiles ruts up, hips lifting off the bed. 

It isn’t long at all before Derek has him fucking his hand in earnest, soft little sounds escaping him whenever Derek reaches out to fondle his balls or his fingers slip even lower to tease at his perineum and the tight ring of his pucker. All it takes for him to come is Derek swiping a finger through the slippery mess of his crotch and pressing it inside of him – and then Stiles is coming all over Derek’s hand and his stomach in thick, translucent spurts, fists clenched in the comforter and his legs splayed so wide it feels like he’s about to dislocate his pelvis. 

Derek’s finger is still inside him, rubbing gently at him and when Stiles manages to blink away the haze in his eyes, it’s to find Derek sitting back on his heels, jerking his own cock in fast, furious strokes that look almost painful; eyes still trained on Stiles as though Derek means to keep him here through sheer force of will. The intensity of his gaze alone is enough to send a second, weaker jolt of pleasure coursing through his veins. 

“Let me help you,” Stiles moans, because there is no way that the sound coming from his mouth could be construed as anything other than that: a fucking _moan_. He reaches out a hand and lays it atop Derek’s, rubs his thumb along the glans and then presses it against the well of pre-come at the slit. Derek bites off a startled growl, repositions his hand so that Stiles’ is now on his cock. The angle is awkward and it hurts his wrist a little, but Stiles squeezes down hard, determined to bring Derek off. 

And he does. Without warning, Derek hunches forward, cock spurting come. Some of it catches Stiles across the chest and cheek and Derek’s fist tightens painfully, claws digging into the skin of Stiles’ knuckles. “Fuck, _Stiles_!” he bellows, face drawn but eyes still on Stiles. 

It seems to go on forever, pulse after pulse of Derek’s orgasm dirtying them and the sheets and everything in between until Derek half collapses on top of him in a breathless huff; the finger still in Stiles’ ass pulling free with a wonderfully filthy little squelch. Stiles hums his contentment into Derek’s sweaty hairline, hands running up and down Derek’s back, letting his nails catch here and there. 

“You,” Derek growls when his breathing has returned to normal and his heartbeat has calmed considerably. He levers himself up on an elbow and drops a kiss on the tip of Stiles’ nose. “You are fucking unbelievable, you know that?” 

“So I have been told, on numerous occasions and by multitudes of adoring fans, yes.” Stiles can’t keep the laughter out of his voice and Derek snorts, gives his chin a sharp little nip for it. 

“Incorrigible,” he mutters, but he’s smiling, lashes dark against his skin and so stunningly beautiful. “Incorrigible, but mine.” There’s a painful constriction in Stiles’ chest at the words, but he takes a deep breath, gives Derek a kilowatt grin and pulls him down on top of him. 

“Yours,” he agrees. “Definitely, irrevocably, absolutely yours.” 

\---- 

The moon looks a bit like a small silver sickle from where Stiles can see it shining through his window. Derek is wrapped around him like a boa constrictor, all tangled legs and clutching arms and Stiles would find the proximity stifling if not for the fact that he wants Derek to never let go. 

Stiles knows he should wake him, he really does. But Derek is fast asleep in his bed and there’s no way he’s going to kick him out of it, not when Derek looks so relaxed and content. This part of him is something Derek guards against jealously, even with Stiles and even after so many years. Stiles looks at him, at the steady rise and fall of his chest and the grey at his temples. He doesn’t always remember this Derek. 

Sometimes he remembers a brash young man who made mistakes because he was so unsure of himself and the people around him. Sometimes, when Stiles closes his eyes just before he falls asleep, he catches sight of a worn leather jacket and blood-stained claws. Those are the nights he goes to sleep knowing he won’t remember what came before. 

It’s okay though. Other people have paid worse prices for less than he’s been given. At least he still has _these_ days. These days when he can recall how old he is and that his father is gone and that Derek and he have been together for far longer than he could have ever dared to dream or hope for. He still has his friends and his pack, and occasionally, the memory of these things. 

Stiles reaches out, lays a hand over Derek’s heart and feels the steady beat of it suffuse his palm. Some days it isn’t enough. Stiles knows that sometimes, it never will be. 

But today was a good day, and so it is.


End file.
